Mind Games (To Be Continued)
by randomqueer
Summary: It had been years since Sherlock and Moriarty saw each other, with one being presumed dead. With a twist of fate the pair meet again, and this time the stakes are higher than ever.
1. Awake

Dark. Cold. Wet.

Groggily, the figure on the floor began to move, first stretching his arms and then his neck. He looked around the abyss of darkness, seeing nothing but specks of light that shone through the holes in the rock. His hair was curled, although not at all neat, perhaps from laying on the ground for so long. Silently he climbed to his feet, attempting to dust the mud and dust off of his long, sweeping coat. His silhouette would have been quite magnificent had it not been for the lack of light.

"Good morning Mr Holmes."

A taunting voice rang out from deeper in the cavern, echoing through its many walls. To Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective to ever grace the streets of London, this voice was all too familiar.

"Moriarty."

Sherlock whispered the name with a kind of wretched disgust, almost spitting as he pronounced every letter. The pair had not seen each other in years, Moriarty being presumed dead and Sherlock moving away from Bakers Street to pursue a new life elsewhere. Yet now, as silence hung in the air, they saw each other, barely able to make out any feature that was not distinctive.

"It's been a while, has it not?" Moriarty asked.

"Not long enough."

Each man spoke in a hushed tone, as if they were afraid to be heard.

"Oh, I just thought that I'd better check up on you. You know how much I care..."

He stepped out of the shadows, getting closer and closer to Sherlock. Flashing a toothy grin, he lifted his hand to the neck of his disgruntled "companion".

"Relax. We're only going to play a few mind games..."


	2. The Games Begin

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock cocked his head to one side, rather confused by Moriarty's idea of fun. Moriarty chuckled almost menacing to himself. He loved confusing a mind so different to the average human being. To him, people were just toys of sorts; something to be used once and then tossed on a pile of countless others. Sherlock was different in a way he could not come close to explaining. He was... indispensable.

"Alright. Let's begin, shall we?"

Sherlock nodded in response, silent in his train of thought. Even he could not process the situation. Rather ashamed, he stepped forward as Moriarty gestured.

"Isn't it _so_ fun obeying my orders? You're just like the others. Pathetic."

He smirked, just like he always did when he knew his plans were steadily falling into place.

"The games are about to begin. You know what happens when you loose, don't you?"

Moriarty fixed his gaze onto Sherlock, whom was biting his lip in the deafening silence.

"Yes."

Sherlock whisperd, shivering with the consequence of his voice. He knew that with that one word, he had left his arch enemy completely in control.

Somehow, he was ok with that.

 ** _Note: I was considering making these chapters longer considering that I'm only going to post this specific fic two to three times a week and perhaps some original stories too. I'd be grateful for some opinions._**


	3. One and the Same

"Do you know how long it's been since I played such games?"

Moriarty paused, not at all hesitant, allowing his verbal poison some time to take effect. His confidence seeped out of every pore, coating him in a sheen of invincibility.

"I've missed our fun. Do you not remember how it used to be? You and I, Cat and Mouse. I don't think you quite understand how much enjoyableit was."

He stared deeply into they eyes of his victim, so desperately wishing to see inside his skull, see the brain that kept him so enthralled. How could a man be so inhuman? How could he care so little for the simple pleasures of mankind? Everyone else he'd snared so easily, with drugs, traps and empty promises. Yet Sherlock was somehow immeasurably different. He too had exploited those who cared for him, daring to use their weaknesses against them. He too was... strange. It wouldn't be all that daring to call him villainous. He truly was a vile human being, and yet somehow, Moriarty loved every sickening bone in his body.

"Enjoyable for you maybe..."

Finally the miserable detective spoke, his voice catching itself in his throat. Fear was not something he was accustomed to, and he did not like it one bit. It spawned sparks of hatred within him.

"Oh no, I think you loved it. I think you loved it more than you even realize."

A cackle rang through the stale air, echoing against the rocks, menacing the bats that lay dormant within the cracks.

"Why? Why did you like our chase so much? Why won't you accept the end?"

These words came with a startling boldness from the detective, daring to challenge the idea that Moriarty knew more about him then he did. Somehow, in the deepest reaches of his brain, he knew that he was undoubtedly wrong.

"You won't understand why. Because I know a hell of a lot about the way you work. You and I, we're one and the same."


	4. Surprises

"All this talk, chatter, whatever you want to call it. It does nothing for me. I have a few... _things_ up my sleeves just for you."

Every word seemed to be an individual taunt for the detective, although it really was no use calling him that anymore. Detectives were always supposed to win, yet now Moriarty, his greatest foe, had somehow snatched victory right from his grasp. It was the most delightful feeling.

Moritaty took a moment just to look at the silhouette standing before him. For reasons he could not fathom, something was so alluring about the sickening figure. Something so dreadfully similar.

Snapping himself out of his daydream, Moriarty turned with the swift motion of his sweeping coat, sending the tiniest particles of dust tumbling towards his victim. He marched with a tense determination into the darkness, muttering as he did. For now, Sherlock felt alone, unable to process the events that had occurred in the span of a week. A flurry of questions whizzed around his brain, seeking an answer where there was none.

A frenzied voice trickled back through the darkness.

"I wanted it to be _exactly_ like it used to, so I brought along a little friend of mine..."

A chill ran down his spine, every muscle frozen in anticipation and dread. To Sherlock, those screams were horrifically familiar...

 **Decided to do another little mini-chapter for the New Year. Hope you enjoy both the story and the year to come! :)**


	5. Bloodlust

"John, say hello to your little friend."

Moriarty spoke as he laughed, trails of spittle dripping from his ever grinning mouth with every word. The figure behind him was pitiful at best, slumped over itself in blatant exhaustion. Forcefully, Moriarty grabbed its head with the same lack of respect a farmer has for his foolish flocks, pulling it upwards into what little light was left.

John remained silent in his fear, sweat dripping along his face, carving out trails in the mud and dust that he wore so fashionably. His whole form was shaking, unable to move further than the confines of his binded limbs. Unable to speak, he pleaded with his eyes, his pupils screaming in fear and his irises crying out for salvation.

At first, Sherlock didn't notice Moriarty reaching towards his back pocket. He didn't notice the gleaming metal sliding from his trousers.

"Take it."

Sherlock understood everything in that moment. _This_ was the consequence. _This_ was the reward. Still, he couldn't, could he?

Somehow, the gun worked it's way into his worn hands. It had been all too long since he'd held this familiar metal structure, felt how cooling it was. Tidal waves of power surged in his brain, filling him with confidence and strength. Unbenowns to him, it also gorged with an insatiable lust, a lust for spilled blood.

While Sherlock raised his trembling hands, Moriarty cackled in pleasure.

"Let's raise a little Hell now."


End file.
